Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  Turning the corner, Kenny paused, gazing down at the sparkling Elliot Bay. He breathed in the scent of ocean air and thought about what it would be like to be on a ship, sailing off to fight the Japanese or even flying over the Atlantic to battle the Germans. Beyond the water, in the distance, the white, jagged Olympic Mountains jutted into the sapphire sky. So different from Eastern Idaho where he grew up. No mountains there—no waterways, either.

  Continuing his downhill trek toward his office, he walked past the U.S. Navy recruiter’s office, as he did every day. The new poster this week showed a shadowy sailor with his fist raised. Avenge December 7 was written in blood-red ink, with a ship sinking in the lower corner of the poster. As usual, Kenny dispelled an urge to go in.

  Lord, are You sure You don’t want me to fight the Japs or maybe the Nazis? This is the plan? He sighed, remembering his promise. He just wished he could do something more meaningful than piffle celebrity stories.

  Twenty minutes later, Kenny reached Alaskan Way where his office was located. The roar of an engine approached, and a woman’s voice called his name.

  “Kenny! Kenny Davenport!”

  A motorcycle driven by a brown-haired woman wearing a jumpsuit pulled up beside him. “Hey, Kenny, I need to talk to you. Meet me over there.” Iris pointed a red-tipped finger toward a side street, then zoomed ahead.

  What can she want? Kenny wondered as he set off in that direction. Iris delivered auto parts when the newspaper’s truck broke down. Was she in trouble? Maybe she needed help from a man of the press….

  Kenny jogged to where she waited. With the bike parked, her legs barely reached the ground. It still seemed strange to him to see a woman on such a big machine. “Everything all right?”

  Iris’s cherry red lips stretched wide in a smile. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a paper, folded in fourths. “For you.” She winked, straightened her leather helmet, then vroomed away.

  Kenny unfolded it and frowned, not recognizing the handwriting. His eyes skimmed to the bottom of the page for a signature. When he saw it, his heart bounded into his throat: Rosalie—the girl Lana Turner introduced you to.

  Chapter Four

  Tying her yellow, Boeing-mandated bandanna in place, Rosalie ignored the less-than-ladylike odors of cutting oil, grinding dust, and welding flux as she entered the front doors of the Boeing plant and quickened her pace toward the women’s locker room.

  All in a girl’s work, she thought as she peered up at a wall poster of Rosie the Riveter. Rosalie admired the icon’s strapping arm posed like a body builder. Riveting the skins onto B-17s eight hours a day for the last year and a half had given her ample biceps herself.

  She eyed Rosie’s intense message, WE CAN DO IT!

  “Sorry, honey,” Rosalie spoke to the lady on the poster, “I’m not ‘doing it’ so well today.”

  Thank goodness for Iris, at least. Her friend had probably saved her job by giving her a quick lift on her motorcycle.

  Rosalie smoothed her slacks where the cola had spilt. Still sticky. The thought of the handsome reporter sent a cool tingle to her neck. Probably because Iris had gibed about her and Kenny’s “moony” introduction all the way to the plant.

  “Give the guy a chance,” Iris had said. Thankfully her friend and neighbor had seen the show and come to Rosalie’s rescue. “Who else do you know that’s been introduced on stage by Lana Turner?”

  The auto parts deliverer—the first woman in Seattle to do the job—even thought up a plan. “Write him a note,” Iris had ordered. “Apologize, and give him your number. I’ll deliver it.” Rosalie had crumbled to her friend’s demands, and now her thoughts pingponged back and forth, wondering if she’d done the right thing.

  If I see him again, I can apologize.

  He’ll most likely never call anyway.

  What if he calls? What will I say?

  He probably thinks I’m a floozy. The nerve of sending my number!

  Then again, he did seem like a nice guy. Maybe he’s not like other reporters.

  But she didn’t have time to worry about those things now. She had a job to do.

  Factory sounds filled the air, and Rosalie had to admit she felt useful here, important. A part of something. Once a woman entered the plant doors, it didn’t matter if she was single or married, a mother, or even a grandmother. At work, she was judged by the job she accomplished, not by who was waiting for her back home or dreaming about her from far away.

  She admitted—if only to herself—she was lonely without Vic. He’d been her best friend for so long, and despite the way she’d sent him off, she missed him. But who was she to whine? She was merely one in a world of women who’d lost their men to the war.

  A part of her heart longed for love—she wasn’t afraid to confess that. Moreover, in quiet moments, she even admitted to twinges of curiosity about others’ “head over heels” experiences—like Birdie’s with her husband, John.

  As Vic had done, John flew the B-17 bombers Rosalie and Birdie riveted. While he was deployed, John sent Birdie the most romantic V-mail messages. And they weren’t just mushy nonsense. The parts Birdie shared conveyed deep honesty and even vulnerability. John always encouraged Birdie to trust in God, to stay cheerful, and he regularly signed off with an instruction: Keep laughing.

  Birdie certainly knew how to laugh. When she’d asked Rosalie if she was interested in rooming together while their men were gone, Rosalie hadn’t hesitated. After Vic died, Rosalie’s bubbly friend’s laugh lifted her out of the dark hours. Her patient, listening ear enwrapped Rosalie with the comfort of not treading alone along the isolated path of grief.

  The letters Vic wrote while away at training had been filled with encouragement for Rosalie too, but they’d lacked passion. Sometimes Rosalie wondered if this elusive phenomenon—romance, passion, true love—would ever find her. Maybe someday, but romance was not for her now. Even if Kenny did call, she’d make up for her sour attitude, but she wouldn’t let it go any further.

  Rosalie shoved a stray strand of hair inside her bandanna as she slinked past the boss’s office. His large window overlooked the floor, and she could see her boss inside, scribbling something on the ledger in front of him. Light reflected off the top of his balding head, and she hoped he wouldn’t look up to see her late arrival.

  Rosalie opened the door to the hallway that led to both the locker room and the production floor. The mechanical din rumbling through one of the world’s largest buildings grew in volume, and the unsettling thoughts of love dissipated. She breathed in the plant’s metallic smell, welcoming the sense of calm determination that settled over her. This is what’s important.

  A high-pitched squeal blasted as she approached the locker room door. “Rosalie! There you are.” Birdie raced to the open door and grabbed her arm. “Where’ve you been?”

  Before Rosalie could answer, booted footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to find her boss striding up to them. His chin was tucked against his chest, making his forehead seem abnormally large.

  “Bullhorn” Hawkins’ eyes peered into Rosalie’s face. “You’re late.” His voice was low, scratchy, firm. Bullhorn’s vocal cords had been damaged in the Great War, or so the rumor went. He never yelled, but Rosalie had heard that when he was younger, his voice boomed so forcefully that other commanders used him to shout to their troops when their own voices faded. Now he spoke low, yet the officer’s authority had remained. So had the nickname.

  Rosalie had never been late before—not even one minute. Her molars clenched together, and her eyes focused on Bullhorn’s shined boots. She wanted to apologize but knew better than to speak. Birdie stood beside her, silent. Rosalie finally dared to look into his face.

  “You know how tight the schedule is?” Bullhorn’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even if you’re late on the floor, you still have to rivet the normal quota. And if you stay longer, there’s no overtime pay—for you or your partner.”
He pointed to Birdie, and the side of his lip lifted in a snarl. “Understand?”

  Rosalie closed her eyes, queasiness sprouting in her gut. “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.” Bullhorn swiveled, then his boots clanged up the scaffolding, where he could watch everything from a bird’s-eye view.

  Rosalie cocked her head toward Birdie. “I’m so sorry.”

  The shift whistle split the air.

  “It’s all right, sweetie.” Birdie patted her arm. “The others are just heading out. Throw your things in the locker, and we’ll join them.” Birdie grinned, and Rosalie gave her a hug, grateful for her understanding friend.

  “I was worried about you,” Birdie said as they hurried into the locker room. “What happened?”

  The last hour’s events roiled through Rosalie’s mind like a Bendix automatic washer, and she puffed out a breath. Where to begin?

  They hurried into the locker room, and Rosalie linked arms with her friend. “Tell you what. Come with me tonight to the Igloo, where I’ll not only tell you all about it, I’ll also buy you a malt for getting you into trouble.”

  At the sink, Rosalie grabbed the bar of white Dove soap, then splashed cold water over her calloused hands. Hurrying to her locker, she pulled Vic’s photo from her pocket and lodged it in the door’s seam.

  Another memory flashed into her mind, and her lips arced in an involuntary smile. Before he’d go home for the night, Vic would lock her windows, and she’d walk him to the door. A sweet, simple kiss, and then he’d leave, warning her to bolt the latch behind him. After he’d walk out, Vic would always pause and check. If the door was locked, he’d teasingly say, “That’s my good girl.” They called it their Good Night Safety Check.

  Rosalie let out a breath, recalling how she’d sometimes leave the door unlocked just to rile him, just to hear his mock scolding. Vic, you were so good to me. Why could I not love you?

  Rosalie grabbed her gloves and work boots, putting them on in a hurry in order to catch up with the other women who were already dressed and shuffling out to the floor. Clara, tall and lanky with dusty blond hair, was already dressed in her big, heavy welder’s suit. Rosalie wondered how she could move in such a getup.

  As Rosalie tucked her civilian clothes in the locker and slammed the door shut, Clara patted Rosalie’s shoulder. “How you doin’, honey? You look a little blue.”

  Rosalie shrugged. “I’m okay. Just a rough morning.”

  “This war can get to ya.” Clara glanced at the ceiling with a wistful look, and Rosalie knew she was thinking of her own husband, who’d left for basic training two months ago.

  “I’m missin’ my Pete like nobody’s business,” Clara said as they walked together toward the floor. “Hey, how’d that date go the other night? What was that airman’s name?”

  Rosalie shrugged. “Jack.”

  “Now that boy’s got one of those chiseled jaws, and those dimples make women swoon. If I were single—”

  “The date went fine. And I appreciate you girls trying to set me up—even though you tricked me into it,” she scolded.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Eunice piped in, slowing her pace to walk beside them. Nearly half Clara’s size, Eunice’s job was to climb into the smaller spaces of the plane to work on wiring. “We just thought you needed some fun.”

  “And sneaking out of the movie, leaving me alone with Humphrey Bogart, Madeleine LeBeau, and Jack—whose idea was that? Poor Airman Jack had to suffer through all my tears.” Rosalie grasped Eunice’s shoulder. “That’s your idea of fun?”

  “Ain’t it yours?” Eunice smirked.

  “It was very kind of you all.” Rosalie gave a swat to Eunice’s rear. “Jack was very nice, but he’s shipping out this week. I’m just not interested in those army boys. You know how it is.”

  Birdie sidled up and looped her arm around Rosalie’s neck. “Then we’ll have to find you a civilian. Some unsuspecting sap.”

  A united chortle arose from the ladies.

  “Good luck with that one,” Rosalie bantered. Her mind carried her back to Kenny Davenport, but she pushed his smiling face from her memory.

  “Don’t you worry. If there’s a worthy non-flyboy or jughead in Seattle, I’ll be the one to find him for you!” Birdie’s bouncy blond hair jiggled as her contagious laugh splashed through the line.

  They passed another Rosie the Riveter poster, and Birdie paused. “Hey, you know what?” Birdie gave Rosalie a once-over. “That girl kinda looks like you.”

  Rosalie laughed. “Not with those muscles.”

  “No, I think she’s right,” Eunice added. “Rosalie the Riveter. How about that?”

  “C’mon.” Birdie curled her arm like Rosie on the poster. “Do it with me.”

  A chuckle sneaked past Rosalie’s lips. “Oh, all right.” She posed, even tilting her chin for emphasis. “I can do it.”

  The pack of ladies clapped, and Rosalie smiled at her friends’ support, grateful for them. And grateful for her rivet gun’s ability to shoot away her worries.

  “Uh-oh, ladies, look at the clock,” Clara warned. “We’d better light a fire under it.”

  Entering the production line, Rosalie took in the sight that never ceased to impress her. A hundred B-17 bomber cockpits were lined up in rows on the plant floor. Sunshine beamed through the ten-story-high windows, and a whole world seemed to swirl in the heights of the scaffoldings. The din of mechanical sounds—rivet guns, saws, hammers, and more—blended together, producing the resonant hum that both comforted and excited Rosalie.

  Rosalie and Birdie tromped toward the tool crib, where Ralph waited. His cocoa-colored face wore a grumpy expression, but he always made sure Rosalie and Birdie got the best tools.

  A stocky, middle-aged male riveter swaggered away from the gate. “Twenty-seven hundred rivets in one shift,” Bill Anderson stepped in Rosalie’s path, cutting her off. The arms of his shirt had been rolled up to display his bulging muscles, and his cocky demeanor caused Rosalie’s stomach to turn. “Which makes us only four hundred short of the national record.”

  His eighteen-year-old son, George, skulked beside him.

  “A woman could never come close to that,” Bill continued, leering at Rosalie. “Could you, sweetheart?” His bald head reflected the overhead lights, making him look like a polka-dotted monster from a Saturday flick at the Fifth Avenue Theatre.

  Birdie’s hands shot to her hips. “Real funny, Bill.”

  Rosalie stepped around Bill and tugged on Birdie’s sleeve, urging her forward. “Not today, Birdie.” Rosalie leaned close to her friend’s ear. “C’mon.”

  “Listen to your friend, Tweety-bird. Time to fly off to work.” Bill flapped his arms.

  A snicker burst from George, who was also deemed unfit for military service, for whatever reason.

  Birdie brushed off Rosalie’s hand. “Ha, ha. You think you’re funny?” She stepped forward, stretching her thin, short frame to make herself appear larger.

  Rosalie’s heart pounded. She’d worked with Birdie enough to anticipate her next words. “Bird—”

  “Me and Rosalie could beat that record,” Birdie interrupted. “Hands down.” Then her eyes widened, as if realizing she may have to substantiate the claim. She tugged Rosalie’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  But the challenge was out. Rosalie knew they’d never hear the end of it. She tried to move past Bill, but he blocked her once again.

  “I’d like to see it,” Bill scoffed. “Everyone knows you girls aren’t gonna make it here. Women will be out of the plants and factories before Christmas. I’d rather have my ten-year-old boy work at the plant than some woman!”

  Most of the men at the plant respected and supported the women, but a few—like Bill and George—never missed a chance to degrade a woman working hard to support her country. Well, he’d picked a bad day to bully Rosalie. For her, this was round two. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking Bill directly in the eyes. “What’s th
e national record?”

  It was now Birdie tugging on Rosalie’s sleeve, but she stood her ground like a soldier protecting territory.

  “What does it matter? Little thing like you—you’ll have no chance of reaching it.” Bill smirked.

  Movement from the corner of her eye made Rosalie pause. A group of women had gathered to watch. Suddenly Rosalie knew what she had to do. This would be for them—her friends. It would give them all a boost.

  “I asked you about the national record, Bill.” She cocked her chin. “What—is—it?”

  “Thirty-one hundred rivets in one shift, Rosalie,” one of the gals cut in. “A team back East did it last week.”

  Rosalie’s heart kicked against her chest. “That’s a lot of rivets,” she muttered to Birdie. Bill and George began to snicker, and Rosalie’s glare narrowed back to Bill. She sucked in a breath. All she wanted to do was lose herself in the rhythm of the riveting gun, to forget about everything—the anniversary of Vic’s death, a new attraction that wouldn’t let her thoughts go, even a silly riveting record. But, perhaps for those very reasons, today was the best day to go for it.

  She stepped toward Bill and wiped any joking from her face. “You watch us. It’ll be done, tonight. By Birdie and me.”

  Bill’s face drooped. His eyes gleamed a trace of fear.

  Rosalie and Birdie turned to go, but George, silent till now, called out in his young voice, “What’s in it for us? What do we get if you don’t do it?”

  “I didn’t say anything about a wager.” Rosalie crossed her arms, hoping they wouldn’t notice her trembling hands.

  “What are you, scared?” George lifted an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “A small wager then.” Bill reentered the conversation. “Just shine my boots.” He pointed to the scaffolding looming above. “Up there, so everyone can see.”